The term “roommate” is used frequently in a college campus setting, and one is even required for most students living in UW-Oshkosh dorms. However, the novelty of living with someone wears off shortly after move-in day.
I’m not going to sit here and say that I don’t like my roommates (and I have three of them). They are my closest friends at school. But there is a fine line between friend and roommate, and there are times where that line should just not be crossed. Just because you like going out and drinking with someone doesn’t mean you want to share a household with them.
I understand the average kitchen isn’t built to support more than one refrigerator, but landlords need to understand the average refrigerator isn’t built to support a food stash for four separate people. A normal household doesn’t have to buy milk gallons separately, and I don’t know anyone who would be willing to share their milk, especially when they drink it straight from the jug, like in my apartment.
A note to milk lovers: just because milk was on sale at Festival for a two-for-one deal doesn’t mean your roommates won’t want to shank you in your sleep for taking up half the fridge space.
Buying in bulk is not welcome in my house.
I’m also dreaming of the day when I can call every cabinet in the kitchen my own. Hell, I could limit my cabinets to a maximum of three items if I wanted. But for now I’m stuck with my one designated cabinet shoved to its capacity with delicious snacks and treats.
And you know those handy fridge-friendly cases that envelope nearly every 12-pack of soda? It can hardly be called a “fridge pack” when you can only put one can in your fridge at a time. The perforated edges of my easy open 12-packs sit lonely in a dark corner, wishing they could be hanging out in my refrigerator.
OK, enough about food issues. Let’s get to more pressing items, like hearing your roommates fornicating.
I’m not going to name names or point fingers, but let’s call a spade a spade. It’s disgusting to hear anyone, let alone a person you interact with every day, having sex.
A note to all you moaners out there (or those who like to make people moan): walls are thin, and even when they’re not, it’s probable that people can still hear you, so shut up.
I won’t dwell on this subject, but the bottom line is that sex is fun to talk about, but it’s damaging to have to listen to, so think twice before you scream.
Now, I wasn’t going to talk about the mess issue among roommates because, honestly, I’m usually the messy one. But I’ll be fair.
A dishwasher is a wonderful device, but it’s not a miracle worker.
If you shove so many dishes into it that you can barely open it without a spatula flying out and smacking you in the face, don’t think that the dishes are going to come out clean.
I think I reached my laziness peak when I “didn’t feel like” pouring soap into the designated spot and turning a knob to “normal wash.”
Instead I left a bowl in the sink and walked away.
Trust me, my own lazy tendencies bother me, but that’s a whole different LighterSide column.
Another thing dishwashers aren’t designed to do? Scrape three-day-old food off your dishes.
Nothing is more frustrating than pulling your favorite rustic brown cereal bowl out of the cabinet to enjoy some Lucky Charms only to see that it has spaghetti sauce stuck to it.
And it isn’t just spaghetti sauce. It’s spaghetti sauce that’s made it through an entire dishwashing cycle. It’s Superman Spaghetti Sauce. Gross.
Now, I don’t enjoy spaghetti-flavored Lucky Charms, so scraping the mighty sauce off with my nail won’t suffice.
It now has to go for another wash. A quick rinse before dishwasher placement could have prevented this whole problem.
These are problems that occur in most multiple-roommate situations. At least, I’m hoping these problems are common because if they aren’t, I live in one unique hellhole.
I’ll end this list of complaints by contradicting myself. Having roommates is fun, but I now understand why my older friends say they’re glad they live by themselves.
I, myself, can’t wait until I can live in a world where extra fridge space is annoying and the only people I hear having sex are Jake Gyllenhaal and the late Heath Ledger when I watch “Brokeback Mountain” over and over again while crying as loud as I want.
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